


Cogwork Binding

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Canon ages, F/M, Ficlet, Hand & Finger Kink, Hands, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Hands are always the first details that Raihan notices, and both Piers and Marnie had been no different.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan/Mary | Marnie, Kibana | Raihan/Mary | Marnie/Nezu | Piers, Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers
Kudos: 5





	Cogwork Binding

**Author's Note:**

> I like Raihan/Marnie since it looks cute and also, I flipped a coin. It was either this or Bede/Opal (with time travel). That's my reasoning for this ficlet anyway. That, and I still need to reset my headspace...
> 
> Also happy SWSH 1 year-anniversary...

Marnie’s hands, unlike her brother’s, are softer, digits similarly well-formed yet lacking in the characteristic callouses of her brother’s, roughness a result of his profession.

They’re musician’s hands certainly—fingers long, if not yet fully developed, and nails well cared for, pale crescents blooming from pink nail beds—but they aren’t quite like her brother’s.

Outside of the obvious differences in size and texture, they simply aren’t forceful enough to be her brother’s hands: too gentle, too hesitant, and too fearful of harming.

They’re too inherently pleasant to be his, too caring in a way that spoke to both her natural mien and to her age, unsureness dominating.

Unsureness formed because of a lack of experience and brow furrowing, dark eyebrows upturning.

She isn’t like her brother in that sense. The appearance is there certainly—same dark hair, same pale coloration, pink flush melting upon white like paint mixing, and the same facial structure, high cheekbones and the same aquiline nose—but it isn’t quite the same.

The shoulders are slimmer, a consequence of both her age and her sex, the face is softer, lacking in the angularness of adulthood, and the eyes are rounder, similarly long, dark lashes framing puddles of baby blue.

It isn’t that he dislikes Piers or his rowdiness, but there is a clear difference between him and his sister, appearance and mannerisms similar by virtue of kinship yet nuances wholly differing, sweetness differing in flavor, one coquettish and the other self-assured.

The hands are different alongside the nuances, touch softer and eager to please yet paradoxically uncertain, uncertainty only adding to her charm rather than diminishing it.

Perhaps it’s an odd thing to fixate on, hands rather than the face or even simply the frame, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

Hands, in his opinion, are a much more reliable indicator of character than a face—malice hidden behind a benign smile, words coated in a false sweetness like candied plums, and eyes concealing contempt, alcohol-dulled and anger nearly unpredictable—or even a voice.

Certainly, he could predict a mood based on the tone, attitude souring or words slowing just the tiniest of fraction, and on silence itself, distinctive and foreboding in a way that preceded an unpleasant pain or a scream, always another’s and always met with a fractured silence, whimpers interspersed and teeth clenched.

Those are the occasions in which one hides, scrambles for the bathroom or for some corner of the closet, or in which one bears it.

With the appearance of the hands, he could, at the very least, avoid the entire affair, the brunt of everything.

The twitch of the fingers, light yet signaling, the slight hardness of the bony knuckles, tinged by the faintest bit of bruising and covered by a layer of callouses, and even simply the nature of them—palms frequently clenching into fists at the slightest annoyance and uncurling once the realization of company set in, reputation reluctantly upheld.

With the hands, he could learn a lot about a person, pain and unpleasantness avoided and signs distinctly different from simple scarring.

At the very least, those are the lessons that he had learned from his mother.

It isn’t that he abhors pain. There could be a pleasantness in it. That had been a lesson that he had learned from Piers, pain willingly given and willingly taken, tenseness gradually dissipating with each occasion.

Rather, he dislikes the memory of everything.

It isn’t in the pain, even if that is a part of it, but in the memory: in the tone, in the intent, and in the touch.

Odd perhaps, but it is his reasoning.

Nonetheless, no matter his own the conjecture, he often finds himself fixated on the hands, details always noticed first—eyes scanning for a particular softness and for a particular mannerism and appearance.

It isn’t a guarantee of course—he isn’t foolish—but it is a start, always the first detail he looks for and always the first to draw him in.

In that respect, Piers and Marnie had been no different.

Fingers similarly well-formed and lacking in that distinctive detail, knuckles mostly bare outside of a few faint scars and nicks, their hands aren’t as he remembers hers.

Certainly, there’s a roughness to them, varying and one owing to their professions rather than to force, but it isn’t as he remembers, callouses upon the palms and fingers rather than on the knuckles and lacking in a familiar tenseness.

Rough in a way that spoke to work and practice rather than to uncontrolled anger and intention always stated beforehand—fingers stroking, murmurs low, and tone gentle, coaxing.

It isn’t the same in either form or intent and that is enough for him.

Hands, as perverse as it is to say, are the details that he always notices first and always the ones that he fixates on.

The slight tremble of the hands, lines indented into pale palms, the beading sweat, wet, and the warmth of the fingers, heat spreading from fingertips like spider’s thread and sticking.

Those are the details that he notices, memorizes.

The grip of the hands, nails painted dark and grasping tightly at the front of his shirt, one pulling him forward into a rough kiss and the other shaking, nervousness rather than fear, and the texture, placement and thickness of the callouses differing yet trailing upon his skin all the same.

There is a pleasantness to them both even if the touch is different, one fleeting, skittish, and the other firm, leading.

It isn’t that he dislikes everything else—voices intermingling with the familiar scent of their shampoo, soft lavender punctuated by sharp mint—but touch has always been his foremost concern.

He doesn’t mind the noise, the shudder—slender hands clenching at his jacket as his own fingers trail against smooth flesh, fingertips pushing underneath a pink hem or perhaps pass a white waistband—or the scent that wafts upward and into his nose, dark hair tickling as a face presses into the hollow of his neck.

Much like with their hands, he has those memorized as well, handprints having embedded themselves onto the glass, smudging, and glass soon fogged up by warm breath.

Everything is pleasant, warm, in a way that erodes at his reason, senses tormented and inebriated like wine dripping upon the tongue, droplets soon sliding downward into the throat and then into the stomach.

It isn't that he cares only for the hands, touch trailing and lingering.

Rather, they're simply the easiest—quickest—means of measuring one's character.

Everything else—he could grow to love it after.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my damnest to keep this under/around 1000 words instead of ballooning into a longfic again. Thankfully, it actually happened this time even if I cut a lot of thoughts from it.
> 
> And on the concept of "pain," I think there's a big difference between physical abuse and painplay in BDSM. That's the explanation with Piers. Honestly, for some people, kink is healing—a reclaiming of an unpleasant past.
> 
> There was also going to be a sex scene, but I eventually decided against it because every time I do a sex scene, it's like 3000-5000 words just for the sex. Unfortunately, I just don't find 100-500 word sex scenes sexy usually...


End file.
